Where is That Bloody Voldemort When You Need Him?
by Sinical-Sarchasm
Summary: Dark humour! Angsty!Harry's life is getting worse and worse and he's trying to kill himself but nothing works. Why can't he just do himself in? Don't read if morbid humour offends you. Makes light of suicide. PG 13 for themes....


A.N.: Dark humour. My favourite thing....yet I haven't posted any on ff.n yet! *shock and horror appear on visage* Anyway, I've discovered that while I have no trouble with morbid, dark humour in my own life, it's as hard as hell to write, so if you'll bear with me...don't flame me or else I'll kill myself. *wry grin* Just joking, guys, just joking....flame away if it makes you happy.  
  
Warning: Suicide. Being made light of. May destroy your black-and-white universe in which death is never an amusing topic. Go seek counseling from Claude Levi-Strauss if it does. (Don't ask....little anthropology/sociology inside joke there....)  
  
Disclaimer: Hey kids, I have a fun game. It's called sorting. Sort what I own from what I don't own in this ficcy! Give you a hint....anything J.K. created goes in the no-own pile....  
  


***~~~***  


  
Harry, come down. Breakfast grows cold. An artificial voice like saccharine drifted up the stairs. Harry recognized it as his Aunt Petunia's and he groaned, kicking the leg of a desk and not even caring two seconds later when he noticed that he'd stubbed his toe.   
  
After the rather harsh talking to which Moody had given to them, the Dursleys' treatment of Harry was at a record high, but just then Harry was feeling at a record low. Perhaps record low wasn't the right word. Harry was so devoid of any feeling at all by now that he wasn't even able to be the angsty teenager he had been a year ago. He was going to desperate measures; he had even taken to writing a diary, but in the middle of yet another heart wrenching discussion of how a gnarly worm eats out my emotions from the inside, as I reflect -- mourn -- on the losses I have felt, and I realize that I am becoming empty, empty as a snail's shell devoid of a snail... he ran out of energy. When a teenager can't even write angsty crap, one knows there is truly a problem.  
  
Dudley was refusing to torment Harry, and it wasn't for lack of motivation. Harry had tried to get a rise out of him every way he knew how, wishing for something that would bring up anger or sadness or any sort of motivation to go about life, but it wasn't working. Evidently Mad-Eye hadn't left Dudley unscarred either, Harry thought bitterly. He had never thought that there would be a time he missed Dudley's torment. Well, now he did.  
  
Yet another unpleasant surprise. Was that all his life had been? Harry wondered miserably. First the loss of his parents, then the unfortunate personalities of his relatives, then Cedric, now Sirius. And he had just received a letter from Dumbledore telling him that out of mad grief the whole of the Order -- that is, the whole of the Order minus Dumbledore and Arabella, whom Dumbledore had somehow managed to save at the last moment -- had committed mass suicide.  
  
Joy of all joys. Suicide.  
  
Suddenly a spark lit inside Harry's numb mind. Suicide. That word sounded vaguely hopeful, not that Harry was able to realize this since he had long ago forgotten the true meaning of the word hopeful. Because, as we mentioned, Harry's life sucked. Like most teenagers he was sure that he was worse off than anyone had ever been, was currently, or would ever be. Unlike most teenagers, he might have been right. The events which follow prove this fact.  
  
Harry, at any rate, had realized that there was after all a way out. He licked his lips. A final, unbreakable way out. Death. Suicide.  
  
Harry, I _don't_ want you writing to that blasted _godfather_ of yours about how we're malnourishing you or some sort of rubbish, so come down. That was better, thought Harry wryly, not really thinking anything was at all better, of course. He used his aunt's use of the word as an excuse to mope and cry in his bedroom for a few more minutes, and then went downstairs. He could live through breakfast, he thought cynically, with the happy thought of suicide afterwards. He grinned. He'd always thought the Order was rather smart, and they were smart in the area of death too.  
  


***~~~***  


  
Harry was reading through Dumbledore's last letter, the one which had broken the news to him about the Order's sudden mass suicide. ...regret to inform you....sudden end to the Order...jumped out of a window...THAT WAS IT! Jump.  
  
With no further ado, Harry jumped. The Dursleys might not want to be bothered by Mad-Eye, but if they saw there nephew close to death, he felt certain they would not be moved to do anything, and he was right. Unfortunately, he had jumped right outside Arabella Figg's window, and as the shocked woman saw him fall, she rushed out.  
  
He did sustain a rather nasty fall, but in the only burst of magic in her squib body, Arabella managed to rescue him. Sadly, that was the end of Arabella, in another tragedy in a string of summer tragedies. She had used all the life-force within her to save poor dying Harry, to make sure that the-boy-who-lived didn't become the-boy-who-stupidly-went-and-killed-himself, and so Arabella was dead and Harry was alive, and both were the worse off for it.  


  
***~~~***  
  


Goddamn himself for ever thinking the Order had the solution, Harry thought. The Order was just a bunch of incompetents who never told him anything and let his godfather die. Or was Sirius' death Harry's fault? The two thoughts' cohabitation of Harry's mind bothered him, but only slightly, and he eventually came to the uneasy but sufficiently angsty conclusion that the Order and Harry both helped kill Sirius. At any rate, the Order's chosen method of death was clearly not good enough. All it had done was went and killed one half of the remaining members of the Order. Not that one half was very much, but still...  
  
Ah well. There were still plenty of others, Harry thought, although he couldn't help but spend a good seven hours berating himself at being a failure in death as well as life. He didn't realize that this was one of the most clichéd things for an angsty teenager to think about; surely if he did, he would have spent an extra five hours moaning about how damned stupid and stereotypically angst-ridden he was.  
  
The next idea came a few nights later while he was taking a warm bath. For some odd reason his mind had momentarily stopped its angsty musings, and he was staring at the vein on his left arm, which was slowly growing larger and larger due to the effects of warm water on blood vessels. Suddenly he remembered. The most romantic way to go. He could even give his life some meaning with such a romantic death. (Of course, he neglected to realize that, since he was the-boy-who-lived and the entire hope for the wizarding world, his life already loaded with meaning, but that was quite typical of Harry just then.)   
  
Finding one of Dudley's razors ready for the use, Harry carefully slid it up his arm, starting at his wrist and moving towards his elbow along the vein which was protruding from his arm. With a sense of brutal satisfaction he felt the physical pain at last and watched the blood come out, feeling blissfully close to death, but...  
  
NO! Goddamnit. Something was happening. Something....wrong. He didn't know what the hell it was, but just as he knew he was about to die and was realizing how unfortunate it was that he still had to watch his miserable life speed in front of his eyes, his cut suddenly healed. Excepting a tiny scar, he was better than before. Physically, at any rate.  
  
Mentally, his depression was momentarily overwritten by an overwhelming sense of confusion as he wrote a note to Dumbledore in which he explained (partially) what had happened, making it sound conveniently like he had just accidentally found his arms slit open while bathing. The letter was returned almost immediately. A short note was enclosed from Dumbledore:  
  
_Harry,  
  
The ancient magic your mother's sacrifice imprinted on you gives cuts, particularly those on the upper body, an amazing ability to heal themselves quite often.   
  
Hope this answers your questions. Sorry to hear about your accident, and I hope you're feeling better.  
  
Sincerely,  
Prof. Dumbledore  
Only Hogwarts Headmaster To Ever Have His Own Chocolate Frog Card  
  
_Harry had the urge to smile at this last line but suppressed it. No. That would be _so_ out of character for his angsty self, he realized. He couldn't be finding something....funny? Instead he resumed his day job of being depressed and angrily mentally told Dumbledore that he _didn't_ hope that he was feeling better.  
  


***~~~***  
  


Harry had reached the height of being a suicidal, depressed teenager. He was now writing suicidal, depressed poetry and finding himself with what he called chronic writer's block.   
  
It was when seeking inspiration for yet another potential poem (which, of course, never came into existence, much like all of the rest of Harry's ) that Harry got the idea for his third suicide attempt. A simple overdose. Yes. That should work. He found the cupboard in which Aunt Petunia kept the medicine and took everything out one evening. He doubted anyone had noticed; even if they had, they wouldn't object. They were all too scared that Harry would write and say that they were denying him vital human rights or some other bullshit. (Little did they know that Harry had convinced himself that his writer's block was so awful that he would be unable to answer or write letters, even the one which would have saved Ron's life.)   
  
What had happened was rather simple: Harry had decided yet again to write an ode to the late Weasley family. (After Molly and Arthur had participated in the Order's mass suicide, the rest of the Weasley family, including the third-cousin accountant, had all overdosed into their deaths.) Suddenly Harry realized that a ridiculously simple solution was presenting itself. He could overdose too. Poor Ron. He had always been the sidekick, feeling as though he was copying Harry; now Harry would be copying Ron. It was an appropriate end to Harry's life.  
  
And so he was here now, with all of the bottles he had taken strewn out onto his bed. He looked at them. Damn. All they were were loads of multivitamins and steroids, presumably for Dudders' wrestling career. Damn it. Even in suicide nothing worked out like it should. But there were 104 bottles...they would have to do, thought the boy-who-lived-and-was-the-worse-off-for-it.   
  
Still, Harry was uncomfortable. This wasn't exactly the most foolproof way to kill himself, and the other two had already failed....suddenly Harry realized what he had been missing those first two times: a suicide note. In a burst of irrationality Harry decided that if he could only overcome his writer's block to write a suicide note, he'd be successful, and he wrote:  
  
_Dear World  
  
I'm so damn sick of being the boy who fucking lived.  
  
Not that you care.  
  
Harry.  
  
_Feeling quite sure that he was going to finally get out of the miserable predicament that was his life, Harry stuffed a load of fowl tasting multivitamins and steroids into his mouth, almost choking but managing to shove it down. Soon the 43 bottles of multivitamins and 61 bottles of steroids were all empty.   
  
Unfortunately, Harry was still empty too, and not in the happy-dead sort of way. Empty emotionally, an empty shell, like a snail shell without the snail...oh wait, we're copying that out of Harry's diary. Harry awoke the next morning to find that he was quite alive. And enormous. Evidently, the steroids and vitamins had given his bones and muscles quite a growth spurt.  
  
And the poor, depressed boy-who-didn't-want-to-have-lived found yet another reason to be miserable: he was no longer the right build for a seeker.  
  


***~~~***  
  


Harry's next idea, he thought, was foolproof. He would buy some poison.   
  
He'd better hurry though. Hogwarts was coming up, and he was decidedly not looking forward to it. Ron had committed suicide, and Hermione's mother, having heard about all the suicides, was not letting Hermione return to that god-awful insane asylum. Moreover, since Harry would not be getting any exercise from Quidditch -- after the mistake with the multivitamins there was no way he was going to be let back on as Seeker -- he would have to find a new way of fulfilling the ministry's new requirement of physical education. And it had already been found for him.  
  
He would be taking ballet lessons with Umbridge.  
  
There was no way he was going back there. Absolutely no way. And so instead he headed out to the local chemist's shop and bought what he knew was a very poisonous fluid. He downed it in a gulp.  
  
Unfortunately, while moping angstily for the requisite ten hours or so before actually committing suicide, the substance had been placed in the fridge. If Harry had listened to the chemist's instructions he would have known that this was the one sure way to rob the substance of all of its potency, but as usual, the boy-who-moped was too busy moping to listen. And so the chemicals had no effect.  
  
To this day, Harry didn't know why. He never bothered to ask the chemist, and couldn't bear to write again to Dumbledore, especially with the realization that Dumbledore was the last surviving member of the Order, thanks to the fact that he had caused Arabella to die.  
  
Harry's life was steadily getting worse.  
  


***~~~***  
  


Much to Harry's dismay, he had returned to Hogwarts after four failed suicide attempts. The first night, he decided, he would have to end it; the next day was his first ballet class with Umbridge, and besides, even if that weren't the case, he couldn't stand much more of hell -- or rather, his life. Because, he reflected in what he thought was a very deep way, who could tell the difference between his life and hell anyway?   
  
Harry decided there was only one thing for it. He'd have to combine everything he had tried in the past. There was no way he'd survive then. So he took out the old suicide note, not having the energy to write a new one; stole some of Dean Thomas' medication; and snuck into Snape's office under the invisibility cloak and stole a small knife and a vial of poison.   
  
On an impulse Harry decided to ruin every memory of this hellish existence which he used to share with Sirius and memories of his father. Completing the stupid things he had done in breaking Sirius' knife and breaking Sirius' mirror, he chucked the Marauder's map, his photo album, and his father's invisibility cloak into the fire, watching them blaze and smolder. There. It was all finished.  
  
He then ran up to the astronomy tower. He glanced quickly down at Dean's medication. Anti-clotting medication. Good. That would help his wrist-slitting attempt. He jammed the medication into his mouth and then swallowed the foul tasting poison; next he ran the knife hard across both arms. He grinned wryly, the only way he knew how to grin because whenever he started to smile earnestly he stopped himself. He was getting good at doing this...finally he put the suicide note down, using a stray rock as a paperweight. And he jumped...  
  
...and fell....  
  
...and fell...  
  
...and fell...  
  
and...  
  
OOMPH! He landed hard in someone's arm, someone who was flying towards him on a Nimbus Two-Thousand. He looked up and gasped, more in horror than in surprise since he was quite used to not succeeding at killing himself by now. Why, he had tried to do himself in almost as many times as Voldemort had tried to do him in. He sighed. Voldemort. How he yearned for those red eyes now...._it's morbid desire, nothing romantic, and **NOTHING** sexual, _Harry reminded himself.   
  
Harry stammered before slipping into oblivion. Death at last, he thought. Death at least.  
  


***~~~***  
  


Dumbledore's office. The snitch....oh wait, those were Dumbledore's glasses. Damnit, thought Harry. Why did he keep making that same bloody mistake? Not for the first time (obviously) Harry found himself wishing he were dead.  
  
Professor...where am I...what....?  
  
Dumbledore leaned over You're dead Harry.   
  
A look of shock flickered across Harry's face, then,   
  
Just kidding.  
  
Ha. Ha. Harry laughed hollowly. Very amusing, professor. Not. Now what the hell just happened and why didn't I just die? Why can't I just end this lousy, idiotic existence?  
  
Dumbledore sighed. There was a weightiness in his voice...then again, there was nearly every time he spoke to Harry.   
  
As to how I rescued you...well, that is the simple part. Do you remember when you were told that you were the youngest seeker in over a hundred years?  
  
Evidently Harry did, and didn't appreciate the taboo subject of being brought up, because his face turned livid.  
  
Dumbledore struggled to continue, obviously afraid that Harry was about to start ripping apart his office for a second time. Dear God, the remodel had cost a fortune. Well, the first-year seeker we had before you was none other than myself. And so I had no trouble rushing and catching you before you fell to the ground when I saw you.  
  
A year ago this might have interested Harry, but, of course, nothing -- save for suicide, which seemed to be Harry's weak spot, weaker even than Divination or Occlumency -- interested Harry anymore. But you shouldn't have seen that...bloody hell, it's night.  
  
Harry hated Dumbledore's serene smile almost as much as he hated his own life. Call it luck. Or fate.  
  
Finally, a flicker of interest.  
  
Ah yes....now here is the more difficult part. Dumbledore cleared his throat. It is time for me to tell you what I should have told you five --  
  
shouted Harry violently. No you don't. Last time you gave me the should have told you five years ago' talk it only ended in catastrophe. Never again will I...  
  
Yes you will. Harry, it is time for me to tell you what I should have told you five Harry began to interrupt and Dumbledore cleared his throat softly five suicide attempts ago. Or, at any rate, which you should have figured out five suicide attempts ago.  
  
I...I don't understand.  
  
Of course you don't. Don't you remember, Harry, the line of the prophecy: AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER'? That means that no matter how foolproof your suicide attempt is, unless Voldemort has been defeated, it won't work. Because neither of you would have died at the hand of the other. You would have ruined the prophecy.  
  
And suddenly light shone through and Harry understood, and he moaned. Every time he thought his life couldn't get worse, it did, and now his prospects on death had gotten worse as well. He sighed.  
  
Where is that bloody Voldemort when you need him, anyway?  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
